Living Masterpiece
by readingmama
Summary: FicAwesome Gift Exchange Gift for Psyche001   A young eccentric painter finds a strange new shop which leads him to a set of paints that are more lifelike than he expects.   All 5 chapters will post today.
1. Chapter 1

**Ficawesome Gift Echange- TAKE 2**

**Title: Living Masterpiece **

**Written for: Psyche001**

**Written By: Readingmama/Vampiremama**

**Rating: M**

**Summary/Prompt used: Boy paints a girl that comes to life. **

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the facebook group: ** **Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps **

**A/N- Thank you so much to HeatherBella for beta'ing. I hope you all enjoy. **

Chapter 1

**It has been said that art is a tryst, for in the joy of it maker and beholder meet. ~Kojiro Tomita**

The boy with the uniquely colored hair sauntered through the gallery. That is what everyone called him; he wasn't even the _artist_ with the uniquely colored hair, no they simply called him boy. He did not think his hair was such a rarity and he actually created the color in paint one day, just to prove to himself that the combinations of red and copper in his hair were not that difficult. The reason they called him boy was because at the ripe age of twenty seven he had done more with his career than most men twice his age. Of course the fact that he still retained his boyish looks probably helped with branding him the nickname. Words like protégé, genius and even savant were used to describe him. The first two may have been true but the third he could not claim, as he was not autistic.

He stopped and stared up at the canvas in front of him. It was one of his favorites. The work of art stretched three feet tall and nearly six feet wide. The man in the painting was reclined on his side; the soft, rugose look of his skin was captured so beautifully that one could have almost mistaken the painting for a photograph. It was part of what made Edward's work so shocking, few artists were brave enough to paint the elderly in the buff.

Edward had never set out to shock the world, in fact his journey to fame started out rather plainly. He discovered in art class that he had an affinity for painting the naked form. He excelled in his anatomy classes and it didn't take him long to become bored with painting one nude model after another. It only took a little while before he felt that they all looked the same. It was only when they'd had an elderly lady pose for his class that Edward found his passion. The way her wrinkles created shadows on not only her face, but her whole body, awoke Edward's drive.

From then he started hiring his own models, learning the planes and contrasts of each one. Everyone's ass was in the same place more or less but wrinkles, no two people held wrinkles the same way. To Edward it was beautiful, and it showed in his work. It had been a long time since Edward had needed to use a model, he now created new people from his mind, his own creativity was allowed to shine. He gave each of his subjects a journey and their bodies showed that journey in lines.

Edward was well aware that what he did was weird, but he also had discovered that rich people love weird. A single painting could fetch tens of thousands. It proved to Edward that if you drive with your passion fueling you, anything is possible.

Moving on to the next painting, Edward stopped again. He was able to move around virtually undisturbed at his openings. He was not one for conversation and most people thought he was either slow or moody. Either way the only time he was bothered was when his agent would come to let him know he'd sold another painting. As much as Edward hated the attention, he did only think it was polite to shake the hand of someone who paid ten thousand dollars to hang one of his works in their home.

He used to have groupies, a gaggle of women who thought they could ensnare him with their teased hair and fake cleavage. It became clear early on that no one ever went home with Edward at the openings; and after he had brought his mother to a show once, the girls had dubbed him a seniorsexual, and left. After Edward had gotten over the initial disgust that someone had thought his mother was his date, he found the whole thing funny. At the very least he was left alone.

He saved one piece for the last. Each painting is like a child, you never admit you have a favorite out loud, but truthfully there is always one that shines for you a little more. The woman with the flower in her hair was Edward's favorite. Just a spattering of pepper in her salty hair, the robust woman sat on the grass with her arms behind her and her face held up to the sky. Her sagging breasts told stories of children and breastfeeding but what really drew your eye was the jewel around her neck.

The emerald was nestled in a plain gold setting and hung so the bottom of the gem just grazed the top of her left breast. It was the only piece of jewelry that Edward had ever painted. Normally he kept his people clean of clutter, insisting on using their crevices as décor but this necklace had come to him in a dream and he had been unable to rest until he painted it.

Several minutes later Edward found himself outside the gallery hailing a cab. He had told his agent that he was leaving and the man hadn't fussed much. After all, four paintings had been sold and that was a nice commission for the man. He slipped into the yellow vehicle and gave his home address; he hated driving and this was his one luxury. Edward took a taxi everywhere.

Edward's bank account had more zeros than anyone else in his building. In fact Edward had the funds to buy the entire building and fill several rooms full of money, but instead he chose to live modestly. The loft on the top floor wasn't as trendy as most would imagine the famous artist to live in but it felt like home to him.

The one luxury the apartment afforded was the large windows that overlooked the city. Even though Edward did not paint cityscapes, he found the view inspiring. The large canvas he had been working on was set up in what most would call a living room. But he didn't watch television, he didn't entertain, Edward painted. It was how he relieved stress, it was what he did when he felt good, it was his whole life.

He grabbed the oil paints out of the bamboo box and began mixing them. He pulled out the red and grimaced at the fact that the tube was squeezed dry. Without the color he would not be getting much done tonight. He tossed the other pigments back in the box and headed to his bedroom, which was really just the bed hidden behind a partition.

He grabbed his sweats off his bed and took them to the washroom. After a quick shower and a thorough tooth brushing, Edward crawled into bed.

The moment Edward closed his eyes, he began to dream.

Running.

The trees passed by quickly as his feet worked to chase or flee. He was not sure which but the thought made his legs pump harder.

Then he saw it.

Her?

Just a flutter of chocolate locks that flew behind a tree, out of reach and just out of sight. Moving as fast as he could, he dodged branches to try and reach her. He couldn't see her but he could feel her, reaching out he tried to grab her shoulder and he felt her whip her head around. Her hair lashed across his face in a painful slap.

Edward's eyes flew open and although the dream had felt but a minute, it was morning. He didn't think much of his dream. He'd had many strange dreams before, and chalked this one up to the fact that he was a right brain thinker and tended to be more creative than other people, even when asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**The painter puts brush to canvas, and the poet puts pen to paper. The poet has the easier task, for his pen does not alter his rhyme. ~Robert Brault,**

Edward sat at his breakfast table and lifted his coffee mug up to his lips, but his eyes were on the painting still on the easel. Something didn't look right and inspiration was not with him this morning, which was for the best when he was out of paint. Not overly prone to fits, Edward could still be quite grumpy when things weren't working his way.

Grabbing his hemp messenger bag, Edward called himself a cab. After living in the same area for the last five years, Edward had met nearly every taxi driver in the area, so he was a little surprised when the man that pulled up to his apartment building was a stranger.

"You Cullen?" the man asked as Edward slid into the back seat.

"That's right," he replied.

"Where to?"

Edward gave the burly man with the curly hair the address of his favorite supplies shop. They carried everything he used on a regular basis and knew him well. The employees there were the closest thing Edward had to friends and he had even entertained the idea of asking the pretty blonde salesclerk there out, until he discovered that she already had an equally pretty blonde girl of her own.

Looking out through the front window, Edward paid attention to the route his driver was taking. It had been a long time since anyone tried to rip him off by taking a "short cut" but with a new driver, he could never be too careful.

A car swerved in front of the cab and the driver slammed on his breaks and honked his horn, but it didn't matter because traffic came to a screeching halt. Edward shifted in the back seat to get a better view and he could see that there was an accident at the intersection ahead.

"Don't worry about it, I can get us around," the driver stated as he flashed a set of dimples in the rear-view mirror.

The taxi jolted forward and peeled out of traffic into a side alley. They drove up of couple blocks before Edward saw the sign.

"Stop up there," Edward said, pointing to the building.

It was an odd place to have an arts supply store, down a back alley. But Edward knew that meant it was either good enough that everyone already knew where it was, or that it was new and would close in a month. The tattered sign had Edward surmising that it was not a new place. So why hadn't he heard of it before?

"Are you sure? I can get you to your other store," the driver said cautiously.

"That's okay; I want to check this one out. Wait here," Edward answered.

"The meter stays running then." It was a common reply for a cab driver but there was an unusual smile on the driver's face.

"Fine," Edward called as he stepped out of the cab.

If it was possible to be enamored with a building, Edward was, and the character on the outside was nothing compared to what he discovered on the inside. The old wood shelving smelled musty and rich, the windows cracked and fogged; it was perfect.

Edward quickly found the oil paints and was astonished at the selection they had. There were brands he had never tried and until that moment he had thought such a thing impossible. He picked up a few of the items and glanced over the fine print, checking prices and weighing the new options.

"Can I help you?" a tiny voice asked him. He spun around but didn't see anyone. He furrowed his brow and the voice came again, this time with a giggle, "Down here."

Edward looked down and saw a sprite of a woman. She could not have been more than five feet tall and her face was a nearly perfect triangle. She wore a long, flowing skirt that was burnt orange in color and a lavender eyelet blouse. At first Edward thought the colors clashed but with the display of multicolor beads around her neck, it seemed to work.

At Edward's surprised look, the woman laughed. "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked again.

"I ran out of my red but now that I see you have so many choices, I may be in the market to try a few other things as well."

The petite girl stared at Edward, studying him intently and the gaze made him uncomfortable. He waited for her to finish her perusal and was rewarded with a smile.

"I know what you want," she said. "Follow me."

Edward barely had time to answer before she began moving quickly through the store. She went behind the counter and disappeared. Edward thought maybe she was magic but then she popped up again, startling him, and presented him with a box.

"This is what you want." He thought her presumptuous, telling an experienced painter what he wanted without even asking anything about his work.

Edward looked at the box and opened it up. The tubes of paint looked the same as the brand he normally bought but the name and design on them were different. The swirls on the tubes almost seemed to mesmerize him.

"What are these?" he asked.

"These are top of the line oil paints. We are the only place in the country that carries them. They provide very life like colors, so real that people will swear your painting moves."

Edward raised a skeptical eye. He had been sold many false promises before and yet he seemed to be drawn to the box of paints, almost as if they wanted him to take them home. He shook his head of the ridiculous idea but pulled out his credit card to pay for them nonetheless.

The woman rang up the purchase but just as Edward grabbed the box, she put her hand on his wrist. He stopped abruptly and met her eyes, which had turned very serious.

"This is very important. You cannot mix these with other paints. They do not blend with other oils at all. You must promise that when you paint with these, you paint with only these."

Edward liked the idea of encountering someone who may actually be weirder than he was, so with a crooked grin he agreed heartily and headed out of the store.

Edward told the cab driver to take him back home; he had found what he wanted. The bag sat in his lap and he held it tight, he didn't know what provoked the sudden protection of the new paints but he couldn't help wonder if this was the way Gollum had felt at the beginning with the ring.

When he was safe back in his apartment, Edward relaxed a little. He cleared his old paints from their table and placed the new ones down. He looked again at the partial painting on the easel and tried to pull from his muse. He mixed the paint on the palette and then looked up at the picture.

Bringing his brush close to the canvas, Edward felt a wave of nausea roll over him. He put the brush back on the stand and clutched at his stomach but the moment the brush was out of his hand, the wave was gone. It was only then he remembered the words of the strange lady at the paint shop. He was not supposed to mix these paints with others.

"Well fuck," he said to himself. He had not bought any other paints, so this painting would have to wait again until morning.

He cleaned his equipment and grabbed a book. Sitting down in his papasan chair, Edward got lost in the world of John Grisham; even he wasn't above a little low brow entertainment.

It wasn't until Edward's stomach grumbled that he realized he had been reading for nearly five hours. He went to his fridge to find something to eat but his supplies were lacking. Finding a box of pasta and a bottle of Ragu, Edward got started on making his favorite bachelor dish.

Edward sat in the comfortable quiet of his apartment and ate his dinner. He'd had many family members and friends ask if he was lonely. The thought had never occurred to Edward; he found the thoughts in his head were enough to amuse him mostly. It wasn't being conceited, he just liked to think.

Later that evening, when Edward made his way to the bed, he couldn't help but stop at the paints. He ran his hand over the top of the box, the sensation of his fingers on the wood made his body shiver and excited him in a way very different than the way paints usually appealed to him.

Crawling into bed, Edward's confusion over why the paints had elated him so was enough to dull said excitement. The last thing he remembered before he drifted to sleep was the scent of freesia.

Edward found himself on a ship at sea. He had never been on a boat before but the way it was pitching under him made him certain that something was wrong. A gush of water came over the side of the teetering ship and pushed him against the side rail.

As his eyes gazed out over the horizon he heard music—no not music, singing. He searched through the waves frantically, wondering who would be able to survive on the harsh waters, much less sing on them.

He saw her hair first, flying up in a tempest of its own. As he fought to see her more clearly, the waves receded, the boat stopped rocking, and a giant rock came into view.

Edward almost expected her to be a mermaid, calling him with her siren song, but instead all he saw was a small girl sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean. She tilted her head when she looked at him, and Edward was able to finally study the face he had chased through two dreams.

She wore a simple white dress that was impossibly dry after sitting through the storm. Her face was narrow and feminine, with crooked lips and large eyes. He studied her like a painter, taking in the negative and positive space more than her actual appearance. But if you were to ask him, he wouldn't be able to deny he noticed her beauty.

Edward only knew one thing; he had to get to her. He jumped overboard and swam furiously toward the girl. When he arrived at the rock, he looked up at her and she gave him a small smile. Reaching down, she extended her hand out to him and he took it eagerly. As she helped him up he was pulled into view of her neck and he saw there the emerald necklace.

His eyes flashed up to her face and she suddenly looked panicked.

"Save me," she whispered as her body disintegrated and blew away on the breeze.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"**Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things****"- Edgar Degas**

The half painted man was discarded to the side of the room and Edward stood in front of a six foot tall canvas. After his dream he felt compelled to paint something he hadn't painted in years; a fully clothed and young woman.

He mixed the paint, going through a painstakingly rigorous process to make sure the color was just right before he even touched his brush to the canvas.

Edward started with the eyes; after all they are the window to the soul. He allowed his hand to trace the gentle almond shape, creating his base. The brown of the pupil was alive and rich, as he added in each little speckle in her eye. Then he moved on to her eyelashes, long and curled but not fake looking, a natural beauty. From the eyes he went down the slope of her nose, adding in shadows as he went. He stepped back to examine his work and he couldn't help but agree with the shop clerk. The paints did an incredible job of allowing him to paint realistically, it was like the woman was there staring at him; now all he had to do was finish.

That was the last thing that Edward remembered, after that the world became a blur. He worked with vigor, not stopping for meals or to answer the two telephone calls that came. Of course he hadn't heard them, he was a man possessed and he could not stop until the woman was before him.

Late into the night, with his eyes barely open, Edward painted the last touch, the emerald necklace around her neck. He didn't even have the strength to look at his work as he took the few steps and collapsed face down on his bed.

Edward was much too creative to have ever dreamed that he was sleeping in his own bed, and yet that was exactly how his dream started. A warm hand drifted under his shirt and up his chest. He shifted under the attention, not entirely lucid yet aware enough to enjoy the touch. Another hand joined the first and pushed on his shirt but only got it so far since he was lying down.

The hand giggled. Edward shook his head, hands didn't giggle. He opened his eyes and the fuzzy world, turned brown and then focused on his mystery girl smiling down at him. She looked just like she did on his canvas. Edward smiled at his dream.

"I painted you," he said absently.

She hid a laugh and answered, "I know."

"What's your name?"

"Do you want to know my name or do you want to help me get you naked?"

Dreaming or awake, Edward knew the answer to this question. He sat up and allowed her to take off his shirt. He leaned in to kiss her but she pushed lightly on his chest and he sank back onto the bed. His head still feeling foggy, he was more than happy to let her take the lead.

The dark haired beauty straddled his legs and leaned over him. If Edward were awake he would ask why she was there, who she was and if she would take off her top too, but since it was a dream, he just laid back and enjoyed. Surely his subconscious would take care of her clothes shortly.

She peppered his chest with soft kisses while keeping her body hovering over his, not quite touching but enough to create a buzz of energy between them. She licked around his nipples and down his abs before she sat up again.

She bit her lip and met his eyes as she popped open the button on his pants. Hooking her fingers in the waistband, she pulled as Edward lifted his hips.

Edward had never been much for underwear.

Her hands found him ready but Edward had regained some of his faculties. "Let me see you," he requested.

She moved gracefully, each limb like a fluid brush stroke. Standing up beside the bed, she pushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders and the fabric fell to the floor. The sound of the dress hitting the hardwood sounding more like liquid than silky fabric but that was not Edward's main focus.

Seeing the girl nude, Edward wondered why he had painted her in clothing to begin with. She was stunning, the kind of figure wet dreams were made of. Edward chuckled at his own internal joke but the sound was cut off into something more guttural when her milky legs straddled his chest again.

He reached out to touch her again but she shook her head, taking one of his paint stained hands and placing it by the headboard. Edward gripped the wooden slats behind him as she did the same with his other wrist.

Edward's eyes rolled back as she stroked him with her body, running her soft wetness along him. She sank down on him and her body was heaven to him. She felt thick and warm inside as he pushed up into her.

Her breasts jutted forward as her head fell back in pleasure. Edward wanted to grab the mounds on display but he was worried if he broke her rule, the dream would stop. She rocked on him wantonly and Edward met her with movements of his own.

She twisted her hips and then let out a long moan as she found her climax. Edward felt himself climax too but instead of a usual wet dream where it woke him up, dream Edward drifted right back to sleep.

Edward woke up feeling sticky. Which wasn't surprising to him since he had gone to bed covered in paint and had had a mind blowing dream. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, stepping in something wet.

"What the fuck?" he wondered out loud as he looked down and saw a puddle of white paint beside his bed.

He tried to piece together his night but all he could remember was working on the painting and then falling asleep. He grabbed a painter's cloth and dropped it down on the floor, allowing it to soak up the spilled paint.

He went straight to the shower, every inch of him needed to be cleaned. After scrubbing himself raw, Edward had gotten most of the paint off his body. He wondered how he had gotten it in so many private places but once again he had come up with a blank on his previous evening. He grabbed his razor off the ledge and ran it over his face, removing his morning stubble while looking in the tiny fog proof mirror that hung in his shower.

Stepping out of the tub, Edward grabbed his towel off the back of the door. When he had bought it, it had been dark green but he'd washed so many times that the color now resembled something bleaker. He dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his hips.

A rumble ripped through Edward's stomach as he left the bathroom and he opened the fridge door. He pulled out a jar of jam and slipped a couple of pieces of bread in his toaster. When it popped up, he grabbed the bread and rested it on his hand while he spread the jam on. Edward only had three plates and he rarely dirtied one if he didn't have to.

Taking a bite of his breakfast, he turned back towards the living area and promptly dropped the toast on the floor.

"What the…" he said as he walked towards the portrait. Only it couldn't be called a portrait anymore, because it was blank. It was as if paint had never touched it.

Edward's first thought was that he had been robbed. He looked around through his other artwork to see what else had been taken. When he finished his inventory and discovered nothing missing, he counted his blank canvases. There were three.

Three was how many he had before he painted the picture of the brunette.

"Where did you go?" he asked the blank page, looking perplexed.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**In my opinion to search means nothing in painting. To find is the thing.**** – Picasso's wife**

Edward ordered a latte. He hated coffee but he felt the need to check everywhere. His eyes danced over the staff and other customers, seeking. He always knew people had called him eccentric, which was just a fancy word for crazy yet wealthy, but after finding no more proof of his night with the painting two weeks prior, he started wondering if they were right.

As he searched the coffee shop Edward looked for the rich chocolate brown of her hair. Instead he saw, auburn, bay, puce, chestnut, beige, cinnamon, umber, fawn, hazel, and ochre. All wrong. He huffed as he took his beverage and left the shop.

Next to the coffee shop was a small locally owned bookshop. Edward had never been in it, but since he was there he thought he might take a look. The place was nearly deserted when he enetered, save for a small older lady sitting behind the desk. Normally he would have taken the time to explore her wrinkles, to study her for future projects but Edward hadn't put a brush to canvas in two weeks and he wasn't sure he would again soon. With the mystery of the blank canvas looming over him, he wasn't in the mood to create.

Edward walked around the store, not sure what he was looking for. He poked at a couple of titles but had no intention of buying. Feeling like the store was a waste of his time, Edward went to leave. He stopped dead right before the door. The eyes that had been haunting him were suddenly staring back at him.

**Missing.**

The poster mocked him, with her sweet face and enticing eyes. Curious as to who else was missing his girl, he let his eyes move off her face and to the print underneath.

**Isabella (Bella) Swan **

**Last Seen March 17****th**

**Anyone with Information, Please Call **

**360-374-4586**

Edward pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number. He looked back at the lady behind the till and saw that she wasn't looking, so he pulled the poster from the wall and left quickly.

The line rung and rung until finally a gruff voice answered, "Hello?"

"Hello," Edward started, "I just saw a poster for a Bella Swan and I was wondering if she had been found yet?"

"Who is this?" the voice asked sounding mad.

Confused, Edward answered, "My name is Edward Cullen, sir. I saw a girl a couple of weeks ago that looked like the one in the picture and I was wondering if she had been found."

There was a long pause and then a sigh. "My daughter's body was found three weeks ago. Whoever you saw was not her."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Edward replied honestly.

The man grunted something into the phone and then hung up. Edward was even more confused. The woman he had painted was beyond a doubt the same girl as the one in the flyer. How could have he dreamt of a woman he had never known? If she had been lost in the area, it was simple enough to assume he had seen her face on the news and forgotten, but that still didn't explain how she had disappeared off his canvas.

Edward looked at the phone number again and wondered where the area code was from. He brought up the internet on his phone and searched for it. It turned out it was from a small town called Forks a few hours out of the city.

Logic was thrown by the wayside as Edward called a cab to take him. The girl was dead; he had spoken to her father, so why was he headed to the sleepy town in search for her? It was simple, at least it was to Edward; he had painted her and she was alive to him. Even if he only talked to a few people that knew her, maybe he would be able to quench his restlessness.

When Edward saw the old wooden sign welcoming him to Forks, he told the cab driver to pull over. The driver tried to protest, saying that town was still a ways up, but Edward didn't care. He threw the ridiculous fair at the driver and started walking down the road.

He walked for twenty minutes before he saw a small trail leading off into the forest. Not being an outdoorsman, Edward knew he shouldn't take the path, but he felt the way beckon him. The feeling was too similar to the way he had felt about the paints to ignore.

His feet followed the path until he wasn't sure there was a path anymore. And a few steps before he intended to call it quits and head back he came upon a meadow. It was circular and perfect, full of blossoming flowers and in the middle sat the girl, Bella.

She sat in among the tall grass and flowers, hidden so much that Edward didn't realize she was naked, except for the necklace, until he was almost upon her.

"Bella?" he said hesitantly.

She spun her head around and gazed up at his face, with horror in her eyes.

"What's happening to me?" She asked, and as she stood up Edward could see what she meant.

She was smeared. Her stomach and along her side looked blurry, like a painting that had been touched too wet.

He had painted her and before him she stood, losing texture and form. Disappearing.

"I didn't know," he said as he took a step towards her.

Bella took a step towards Edward, and then launched herself at him, holding tight. The sensation of her pressed against him was reminiscent and he realized that their tryst had not been a dream.

"It feels better when I touch you, why?" she looked up at him with a scared innocence. Edward didn't know how to answer but to agree with her. He felt better with her there as well. It was if she was his inspiration and he could not create without her near.

"Why did you leave?" Edward asked, still holding her.

"I wanted to come home, but I only made it as far as the Forks sign before this started happening," she answered, motioning to her fading skin. Edward had a hard time thinking of anything when she stepped back and gave him full view of her body. "I remember you, but I don't know why."

"You don't remember being in my room?" he asked. The look she gave him made Edward want to paint a blush on her cheeks.

"I remember pieces. I thought you were a dream," she replied and then closed the distance again, running her hands up his chest. "Can you help me?"

"I don't know how," Edward answered honestly.

"This helps," she said. "Touching you seems to help."

Edward wrapped his hands around Bella's waist, her body familiar and yet foreign. He vaguely remembered touching it before but he had the look of it memorized and he let that thought guide his shyness.

He used his fingers as his brush and he painted her arms, the soft line of her neck and across her collarbone. His fingers trailed down her sides, dipping in instinctively where she curved and then back out with the line of her hip. Edward resisted the urge to say something cheesy like, _you were made for me,_ but it was the way he felt. Every line of her body was his. He had created it and even though she had existed in some form before him, this form was his.

It was with that knowledge that Edward bent down to kiss Bella. Her mouth was warm and wet to him and her breath smelled of his workshop, a scent he thrived on. Pulling her closer, he nipped at her lips and his hands began wandering across her back.

There wasn't a patch of skin that Edward wanted to miss, so once he had covered the top half of her, he found himself on his knees beginning on the bottom half of her.

Bella looked up into the sky as Edward's hands traveled down her legs, across the tops of her feet and back up lightly over her ankles. It was down here that Edward could see that more of her had faded than he realized before. The inner part of her calf dipped in where it shouldn't have and her knee looked over-airbrushed.

Edward had never really felt complete until this moment. While touching Bella he found his purpose and where he needed to be and that comfort was disappearing the more he looked at the woman in front of him. She wouldn't last. Her body was meant to be on a canvas and not out in the harsh elements. Edward looked up and thanked God that they were experiencing one of the few days without rain the area saw.

Bella saw the desperation in Edward's face and she sank down next to him. Pushing her fingers into his hair, Bella kissed Edward hard. The intensity of their kiss grew as each of them knew that what this was could not last.

Edward sat back and unbuttoned his shirt, before peeling it off and laying it behind Bella. She looked at him with want as she lowered down on the fabric. Edward stood and looked down on her, thinking of how she was a perfect picture as he unzipped his pants and let them fall. He kicked off his shoes to get his pants off and then he pulled off his socks. Only when he was as bare as she was, did he let himself join her on the ground.

Edward positioned himself up on his elbow allowing his body to hover over Bella's but not touch. As Bella took breaths in, the tips of her breast would graze his skin only to feel the loss again when the air left.

"Please," she begged him and he complied.

Edward explored her body again, with all the knowledge of a man who had studied anatomy for years. Bella's head tipped back and her mouth opened as the pleasure he gave her was more important than anything.

When their bodies combined again, Edward felt everything that the first time had denied him. The haze was gone and the world broadcasted everything in the frequency of pleasure. The hum of their union made them both drunk and hyperaware.

They moved together with perfect unity, finding their finish together, calling out each other's names like a prayer.

Edward didn't remember falling asleep but he did remember Bella. He reached out to the side and found only grass under his fingertips. He opened his eyes and looked, the ground, like his body, was covered in paint.

And Bella was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson**

Edward felt sick. He had washed the last of the paint off his skin and nearly wept to see it disappear down the drain. Bella was gone. He had searched the meadow, but he knew even as he did it, that she was gone. The proof was all over him.

He dried himself as he sat on the edge of his bed when inspiration hit. If he created her once, he could do it again. He rushed to his easel and grabbed the paint tubes. It was clear as he looked at his supplies that he would not have enough to paint the girl again.

Edward was on the phone in a minute, calling a cab. A familiar driver known as Ben was waiting for him as he exited his building. He hopped into the taxi and gave Ben directions, the best he knew how, to get him back to the paint shop he had stumbled across last time.

"This one," Edward said when he was sure they had spotted the right alley.

Edward half expected the shop to be gone, like a magical place that had appeared once and then left in the fog of night, but it was there and Edward sighed in relief as he got out of the cab.

The small woman greeted Edward with wide eyes as he entered the store like a tornado. But she didn't seem afraid, only surprised to see him back so soon.

"I need more paint," he huffed, and then tacked on a, "please."

"First timers never get it right," she said a little more jovial than Edward would have liked. He tried to be patient, the woman had no idea this was life or death.

She pulled out a box exactly like the one he had purchased before and set it before him. Edward grabbed a hold of it like it was a lifesaver and he was drowning.

"Just wait," she said, as he went to grab his wallet. "There are some things you need to know. This paint needs a canvas." Edward looked at her like she was daft. "You can take the picture out and show it to your friends but at the end of the day the painting needs to be back on the easel."

The words clicked in Edward's head. "So as long as the painting and canvas are on the easel each night, then the work won't deteriorate?"

The quirky woman nodded her head and gave him a little smile. "Also the painting needs to stay close to you. You're the breath of life into the art, without you it cannot survive."

It was Edward's turn to nod as he took the box to leave. He was nearly out of the store when he had a thought. He turned back to the lady and asked, "Do you sell many of these paints?"

"No, those paints are very particular. They choose their own artist." The two shared a smile.

As Edward was leaving the shop he was blocked by a man carrying several boxes.

"Where do you want these, Miss Allie?" the voice behind the boxes asked.

"Just there is fine, Emmett."

The man set the boxes down by the front door and Edward came face to face with the cab driver that had brought him to the shop the first time. Edward opened his mouth but then closed it and shook his head. There were too many questions and he had better things to do with his time, like go home and paint.

Edward worked all afternoon and late into the evening before he finished the work. He painted her slightly different this time, giving her more life in her cheeks with a pink flush. When he was satisfied with his work, he sat back and waited. When nothing happened, he wondered if he needed to sleep for the spell to take place.

Edward moved the partition dividing his bed from the living room, so that he could see Bella from his bed. It was a task for Edward to fall asleep, for even though he was tired, he didn't want to miss a moment with Bella. When slumber hit, it took him fast and he did not dream.

His eyes opened and they immediately fell on the canvas, with Bella still on it. Tears welled up in Edward's eyes but he was too angry to let them fall.

"No," he spat out. "You were supposed to come back."

All of the exhaustion and stress that Edward felt came out. He stood up and kicked over his table full of paints, frustrated. The colors went flying across the room but one landed at his feet.

The green.

Edward's eyes opened large as he picked up the paint and squirted some on his palette. It took him a couple hours to get the necklace just right, with his hands shaking so badly but once he was finished, the painting was perfect.

So perfect, the girl on the page jumped out at him—literally.

Bella's arms wrapped around Edward as he sobbed in relief. "Bella, I thought I lost you."

"I'll always come back. I'm your muse."

THE END

**E/N- There you are dear Psyche001, I hope you enjoy this as I had great fun writing it for you. **


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